Three decades ago, London was stolen by bats. Dragged deep into the earth by the Echo Bazaar. The sun is gone. All we have is the gas-light of Mr Fires.
But Londoners can get used to anything. And it's quiet down here with the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine. Peaceful.
But then YOU arrived.
Echo Bazaar. After being introduced to it here, I’ve been playing the browser-based game pretty faithfully, enjoying every minute of the experience. But playing as a schizophrenic British gentleman only puts a smile on my face for so long. As of late, I’ve been thinking; how would a narrated LP of a different Echo Bazaar character go?
…Well, due to the mostly text-based nature of the game, it would have to be mostly text as an LP. Images would be scarce and simple (unless an artist in the Playground wants to volunteer…?), so imagination is a crucial tool for both the readers and the writer. A story would be fairly simple to craft and keep up, so that’s not a deterrent. Voting would take waaay too long, though, due to the pace of the game and… Well, really just how the game works, so that’s out as an option. But hopefully it’s still going to be a workable project despite.
Few Fun Facts:
-The currency is the Echo, which is made up of one hundred pennies.
-The setting is London- One mile underground. About a stone’s throw from Hell, apparently. Or rather, a boat ride.
-This game is very fun. Play it.
To sum up; It’s an LP of the browser game Echo Bazaar. There will be images but very few will actually give you an idea of what’s going on (use your imagination). There’s no voting, and (though this wasn’t mentioned above) updates will be posted twice; once as their own post, and once in spoiler tags a link in the third post, for organizational purposes.
Also, a semi-relevant detail; I do not use Metric very often. I apologize if that makes the few times throughout this that I plan to use measurements inconvenient for you. It just makes things simpler for me, being raised on the American customary version of the British Imperial system. Kind of strange IC, though, the main protagonists being British and all.
IMPORTANT UPDATE: As of Part Six, fellow Playgrounder Domochevsky has signed on as an artist to spice up the former blandness of text. So that thing I said about not many images? It's still kinda true; but there's more awesomeness mixed in now.
Anyway.
*ahem*
Welcome, delicious friend, to Let’s Play: Echo Bazaar.
I can barely see. The border of my sight, extending far past my peripheral, is a blurry white fog. I’m wandering, staggering down a torch-lit stone hallway, one hand occasionally falling on the wall to catch my balance whenever I trip. I’m woozy, and it’s hard to think straight. I’m not even sure why I’m walking or where I’m going. But I walk anyway. Whenever I stand still, I get an eerie feeling.
Eventually, I reach a place where the stone meets wood, turning ninety degrees and creating a wooden wall in the cavern of rock. On it, I can just barely make out a door, its golden handle shining through the fog that blinds me. I open it, and walk through. Almost instantly, my vision is perfect again, and the eerie feeling is washed away. But I don’t question it. I’m too busy taking in my surroundings.
The room was well furnished; red felt couches lined black and brown oak bookshelves on the windowless walls; a golden chandelier hanging a foot from the ceiling; and a fireplace, stone, burning just across from the door on the opposite side of the room from where I just walked in. The cackle of its flames calmed me; despite not knowing where I was, the sound of flames would always sooth me, even as a child. I stepped further into the room, closing the door behind me.
At its center, atop a luxurious circular red rug covered with black designs and tasseled on its edges, sprawled neatly on the wooden floor, a small table, rising up to just above my waist- at my height of five feet, nine inches- stood with a small fist-sized box on it. Walking over to it, I see an image engraved on its top.
I don’t believe I’ve seen it before, but it seems vaguely familiar, and I get a sense of déjà vu when I pick up the box in my right hand. Turning it over, I see a flap-lock, like one on a deck of cards. The light goes off in my head, and I realize that this is a deck of cards. Curiosity vexing me, I open it and tilt the box to look inside.
Just as I thought; a deck of cards. I pull one out.
And my eyes open.
I’m laying face-up in the straw bed of my cell in New Newgate Prison. Staring at the rocky, uneven ceiling, I put my hands on my face and sigh.
Another weird dream.
This place is getting the better of me.
New Newgate Prison Cell Five-Twenty-Three Day Unknown
My name is Aaricia Reynolds. I am a permanent resident of the New Newgate Prison in the Neath.
I stopped counting the days I’ve been here. I ran out of room on the walls for tally marks.
Not that it matters. Each day is the same.
The guards- some hooded hunch-backed abominations with glowing yellow eyes- force you out of your cell each morning for work smashing stones on a platform extending out the other side of the stalagmite they built the prison into. Around noon- or what I think is noon- they drag you back in and give to a meager ‘breakfast.’ Just enough to keep you alive so you can work the next day.
Not that they profit from your work. They toss the stones you smash over the side of the platform.
After that, they throw you back in the cell. And that’s it. Life in New Newgate. Living the dream.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I sigh as one of the guards lumbers past my cell. I look up at him… It… Whatever… And my long, unkempt auburn hair falls before my face as the guard glances my way, making a brief moment of eye contact before it continues.
I look back down. The lighting from the glow outside my barred window was just right- you could see almost every speck of dirt on me and my tattered clothing.
You didn’t wash in New Newgate. You didn’t need to. You’d just get twice as dirty the next day.
Not that they let you wash.
I stand up and pace the room, hands on my head and thoughts creeping along.
I have to get out of here.
I stop and look out the window. The sight through the broken bars reminds me of the image on the card from my dream the previous night. An uncanny coincidence.
The light from below gives me hope, but not progress. I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to get my freedom. It is not a question of when. It's now. It's not a question of where. It's there.
It's a question of how.
I walk over to and look out the window, the possibilities, though few, running and twisting through my mind. There aren't many options here. There's an awful lot of chance.
Well, your stats suck, so you're not gonna be busting out that easy. I say conceal your miner's pick on your person next time you go smashing.
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
Well, your stats suck, so you're not gonna be busting out that easy. I say conceal your miner's pick on your person next time you go smashing.
Well, it's not a pick, but hey, it still works.
Also; I was not joking when I said 'There will be few images.' This post holds to that.
Part Two:
Pressing my face as close to the rusty old bars as I can, I look down into the green murky water below. Estimating, I’d say it looks like a good half-mile to the surface of the disgusting muck. A dirigible that brings food to the prison every day passes almost straight under the window on its trips- it was currently floating back to the mainland, a fair distance away. I back up a bit and take a look at the mortar holding the bars to the sill of the window. It was old; on the verge of brittle from lack of maintenance. I grab hold of the bars and attempt to shake them loose, knowing it won’t work. When they inch in their seal a bit, however, I have an idea.
Turning around, I dart my eyes cross the floor of the cell. Scouring the stones, I look for something, anything that I can use to chip away at the rotting mortar. Suddenly, however, the light from the torches goes out simultaneously- The universal sign in New Newgate that it’s time to shut your mouths and go to sleep.
Not that they let you talk. Or like you to, anyway.
I grumble and sigh angrily. Why right then, guards? Couldn’t you have waited just a few more minutes…
I walk over to and sit down on the bed, unable to see in the pitch dark. After a few moments, I lie down and close my eyes. The dirty, dank, uncomfortable straw-on-stone ‘mattress’ they give you… Combined with the darker-with-your-eyes-open cell… If it weren’t for Hell being down the river, I would have thought I died I went there long ago.
I lull myself to sleep, as best I can in spite of the spider crawling on my…
…GAH!
I swat the dreaded thing across the room, and hear it smack into the wall and fall to the ground with a small thud. I can’t see a thing, but I sit on the edge of my bed, hands clamped in the side, staring into the dark.
I see a wink. A flash of light in what I know from memory and distance estimation to be the corner of the room, across from both my bed and the cell’s barred door. It came from the spider’s eye. …No… The eye the spider is holding.
In its poisoned-drenched teeth, it was clamping down on a single green-iris eyeball. It was looking at me, staring blindly along with the spider’s many red eyes. It gave me an unsettling chill down my spine. Where had I seen this eye before? I never forget a person’s gaze…
Then I remembered. The last time I saw it was in the mirror. It was mine.
My hand shoots up to my face.
And I shot up in the bed. Awake.
I didn’t move for several seconds, then turned my head to see the corner where the spider was. I felt my face. Both eyes, right where they always are. No spiders.
…I sigh, exasperated, and lie back down.
This place is finally driving me mad.
****
The next morning, I manage to swipe a hammer and chisel from the tool chest while the rest of the prisoners and I leave after the ritual rock smashing before breakfast. With the crowd of criminals being hoarded into the eating room, I end up sitting alone at the table I usually sit at in the prison’s cafeteria. I used to sit with others- we’d talk, as if this were school and we were all kids in a peaceful, happy place, pushing the truth aside. Most of those people died long ago, unable to handle the insane demands of New Newgate. Not that I can blame them. I must be one of the lucky ones, because God knows I’ve never been physically strong. I’ve survived this far, somehow. My guess is that it has to be luck.
Though, depending on how you look at it, that might not be lucky after all.
After about fifteen minutes, the guards come and rush us out to our cells. You’d be surprised what whispered secrets get tossed about in earshot in those fifteen minutes. Those still with people to talk to say the strangest of rumors… But nothing terribly interesting or useful. To me, anyway. Maybe once I’m out of here, someone will pay for the subject chatter of my cell mates.
Which brings me back to the matter of escaping this wretched place. I look out the window again. It certainly is a long way down… The lights of Fallen London reflect across the cavern, and shine up from the edge of the Unterzee waters below…
…I unravel the pouch I made in my ragged clothes, taking out the hammer and chisel. Tearing off a small amount of cloth, I wrap the chisel in it to lighten the sound as I work. And I have to work fast. There’s nowhere to hide it, and the guards can search my cell at anytime. I get to it, silently chipping away at the old mortar that holds my room’s window bars in place.
It may be a long drop down. But it’s the only way down.
I work as fast and as precisely as I can. But after a number of paranoid-induced freak-outs, I’m finally forced to drop the tools out the window. Just in time as the guards entered to search my cell.
I swear… I could almost hear the tools hit the water.
For some reason… Just hearing that sound makes this all that more bearable.
It’s down there. The world I’m trying to escape to… It’s down there.
Just out of reach…
----
I'll update the stats page when Part Three is posted, as it's nearly done anyway.
EDIT: Updated. Useless Fate Points added to the listings for no reason.
Part Three:
I couldn’t risk stealing tools again. But I got lucky; in the cafeteria, one of the guards drops a fork nearby. Stuffing it into the… ‘Pocket,’ that I formed from the pouch I ripped out., I hid it nervously- strangely more nervous with the fork than I was with the hammer and chisel- and eagerly rushed ahead of the others back to my cell, ignoring the strange looks on their faces.
It turned out to be the last time I’d see their masked faces.
When I used the fork after the fifteen minute breakfast that day, after a couple hours of chipping away following my progress of the previous night, the mortar broke. And the bars fall like the rocks they are into the water far, far below.
I immediately join them.
It occurs to me only after I’m well in the air that I didn’t check to see if the dirigible was below.
I guess I was lucky again, though. It was there. Right on time.
I brace myself, and slam into its soft top from about halfway through the half-mile drop, sliding a frightening amount down its angled side before I get a sudden grip and hold on.
I blink.
I close and open my eyes slower, grasping the situation.
I did it. I’m free…
…I’m… I’M FREE!!!
HA HA!! I’m out of that accursed place! I’m free from that hellish prison cell… I’m free from those blasted guards!
I have to stop myself from giving away my presence. No one seemed to notice my hitting the top of this thing; I’d rather keep it that way and not let them know I’m here by shouting out my joy. That could wait for when I was on solid ground.
Which was… A fair distance away. But as the dirigible spiraled closer to its destination, it lowered bit by bit, and the top of the St. Aegidius tower was a safe leap away.
I take the jump.
I make it, sliding past the nests of bats and ravens and hitting the ground safely on the streets of… Of…
…Huh.
I look up at a hanging sign.
That explains the smell of drunks.
Veilgarden The Singing Mandrake Day One
‘The Singing Mandrake.’ The most popular bar in Veilgarden, attended to by paupers with coin and a taste for alcohol and rich bohemians with a taste for uptight social life. Well, at least I know where I’m at now.
I take a look at a nearby street sign. The Bazaar is… This way.
I sigh, take off the prison mask, and try to ignore the suspicious looks passer-bys are giving me. It’s a long walk from Veilgarden. And I’ll probably be coming back.
But I’m out. I’m out of New Newgate. And I’m in Fallen London. The dark, dangerous, underground city where I’ll be making my fortune.
The Echo Bazaar
The Bazaar was set up like a huge bar/shop from the surface, just with more… Creatures, walking around. Nobody else was freaking out about the man walking like a crab with a squid for a face, so I guess I won’t stare. Though, now that I take a good look, there were a few people eyeing him menacingly…
I don’t worry about it. I approach the nearest counter, as there are many set up with various customers haggling over Echo prices, and prepare to try and sell my gear without getting thrown away again. Looking around as I walk, I sport a few small tables set up where patrons are sitting down and trading with each other. Maybe I’ll go there instead…
I look again at the small tables and see that one of the men is eyeing me. Lustily.
…Then again, maybe I’ll stick to the Bazaar counters.
I approach the counter, and the man behind it meets my eyes.
“Well, hello there, young lady; can’t say I’ve seen you in here before. How can I help you?” He spoke with a cheery British accent, but something told me he was being paid to fake it for ambiance. He was about as British as I was. And I was French-American.
I stand on the opposite side of the counter from him, ignoring that, and place the mask they make you wear in the prison on it. Then I place my hands next to it, which still have the iron manacles on their wrists from New Newgate. My ankles did too, but I didn’t think it’d be proper to stand on the top of the counter to show him.
“I need to sell these.” I say simply and discretely. “Can you get them off of me?”
“Hmm…” He turns them over by picking up my hand to bring them closer. “…Ah. I know what these need. Wait right here, would you?”
He scurries off into the back room, and comes back out holding… A key? No, it can’t be. The Bazaar is said to have one of everything, yes, but the key to the chains of New Newgate… I expected him to bring out a hammer and chisel, or something. Does this mean that he recognizes them as a prisoner’s manacles? Well course he does; where else would I have been wearing them? But does that mean that he’s going to report me to the constables…?
He unlatches the lock and the heavy iron falls off my wrist. Then he does the other, both with a small smile on his face.
He looks up at me. “I suppose you have these on your ankles, too, correct? Here, let me get them for you.” He comes around the counter and unlocks the ones on my ankles as well. He stood up, placing them on the counter next to the others and walked back around to stand on the other side. “There we go. Now, you want to sell all of this, yes? Well, it all adds up to about…” He stops when he sees my quizzical gaze. “…Oh, don’t be so worried. Down here in the Fallen London, we occasionally see your type show up, and, well… We’re all gentlemen, here. It’s none of our affair. Why should we pry into the pasts of our customers? We are not constables. We are not thugs.” He paused. “…Now, as I was saying, it all adds up to about… One Echo and five pennies. Unless, of course, you want to sell these rags you’re wearing too…?”
I give him an astonished look.
He chuckles friendlily. “I don’t mean without getting something to wear in return. Here, we have a nice dress available for only half an Echo. Why don’t you go try it on?”
He takes down the light gray garment and hands it to me.
“There’s a changing room in the back. I’ll sort out all your belongings here while you fit yourself, yes? I'd have a girl help you, but, you understand; we're a bit short-staffed at the moment.”
I nod and walk towards the curtained-off changing room, quickly slipping into the sober dress while the salesman gathered up my equipment and prepared payment; the rags included, it totaled one Echo and seven pennies. Minus the dress he already knew I was buying, it ended up with me walking away completely unsuspicious with just over half an Echo. Or it would have. If I hadn’t walked by the Bazaar’s animal companion section on the way out.
I stop dead in my tracks and look at the caged weasel, big eyes looking up at me. Oh… It’s too bad that I can’t afford to part with the fifty pennies required to buy it… Such a cute little guy…
The salesman from before walks up behind me. “Oh… I see you’ve spotted the Lucky Weasel.”
I blink. Lucky? “What do you mean… Lucky?” I ask.
“Well, we don’t mean he brings luck to you.” He shrugs. “Things just tend to work out for this little fellow.” He smiles and reaches his hand through the bars to give the Lucky Weasel a few quick pats on the head. “You know, he’s only half an Echo. And everyone needs a companion or three. How about it?”
I hesitate. “Er…” I only have fifty-seven pennies left. And without the daily slop of my prison cell, I'd need to afford food to eat tonight.
The shopkeeper spots my wariness. “…Tell you what. Secrets are almost as good as Echoes. If you have a few on you, I’ll give you a small discount in exchange.”
I quickly perk up. I had just a few rumors passed around from cell to cell, but perhaps they would be enough…
I pull out the three slips of paper I jotted them down on back in New Newgate over the course of my stay. Small enough to tie to a raven’s leg… These whispered secrets were finally paying off.
I hand them to him. He smiles. “I think that’ll do it. Here, let me ring you up…”
After I finally end my visit to the Bazaar, I end up leaving with ten pennies in my pocket, a new dress on my back, and a weasel on my shoulder. I was now a citizen of Fallen London, just blending in with the crowd. And hopefully, I’d soon have a place for myself in Veilgarden. Or elsewhere, maybe. But first, to find a place to sleep for tonight.
A point of interest; here in Fallen London, it’s a rare sight indeed for someone to actually die. People just come back to life if they’re killed, for the most part. So tombs and crypts, while filled to the brim when London was above ground, are now nearly empty, robbed clean of any and all valuables by thieves, and… Well, no one really questions where the bodies went. It’s illegal to sleep in them- crypts, that is- but the constables never check to make sure that they’re empty. It’s cold. It’s dark. And, quite frankly, it’s scary. But it works.
At least I’m not in shackles.
Fallen London Abandoned Family Crypt Night One
I’m lying on the cold stone floor, the weasel I bought a few inches away from my head, curled up and fast asleep. I’ve named him Bronze, after the color of his fur. Apparently, they just picked him up off the street one night; didn’t even give him a name…
I yawn and roll over on my side. It’s been a long day.
****
****
…My vision is blurred again. I’m walking… But not on stone. On wood. Holding a candle in my right hand. Even with the candle, it’s impossible to see. I raise it up to be closer to my face; maybe the light will intensify a bit and I’ll be able to see where I’m going. But as soon as I do, the candle hits something, and then catches that something on fire.
The room is lit quickly as the flame jumps from one place to the next, engulfing everything around me in seconds. Between the flames, I see that what caught fire was a book, and all the books next to it after. I was in a burning library, the shelves now walls of flame. Pages from the books, like leaves of charred fire, fall down and dance around me. Despite the danger, I feel at peace. As always… Fire always calms me down…
I wake up. I’m back in the crypt, lying right where I was when I closed my eyes.
Sitting up, I look around me.
Nobody. Nobody but Bronze and I.
Warily, I lay back down, and go to sleep.
****
****
The next morning, I’m walking through the streets of Veilgarden, getting a grasp for what’s where and who frequents what places, when I run across a strange sight.
Flowing out of an alleyway between a shop and a restaurant, a man dressed in chef’s garb swatted with a broom at a swarm of rats fleeing him every which way. Shouting curses as the stubborn animals made complete 180’s and charged him, he swatted them in vain as they flew underneath his legs, apparently into the side entrance of the establishment I’m assuming he works at.
I watch from a distance. The chef, a chubby, balding man with dirty-orange hair, slams his broom down on one of the rats. While I do have a love for most animals, rats are not included in the category of ‘things I’d save from extinction.’ I don’t flinch as the broom swats another. But no matter how many he hit, more would dodge and fly right by, preparing to taint the food he had doubtlessly labored on for hours.
I shoot a look at Bronze.
“…Want to give it a shot?”
He looks at me, and blinks.
“…Well. Go on, then.”
Bronze leaps down from my shoulder and charges across the street, latching onto one of the rats sneaking by the chef and swiftly dispatching it. The chef seemed to notice, but was still too busy to really say anything. Bronze stayed behind him; taking care of any rats headed for the kitchen door. Eventually, a sizable pile of rat corpses was being carried off by street-cleaners to who knows where. Probably another kitchen in an area of less repute. In any case, I approach the chef, who was now resting in a much calmer mood up against the wall.
I put my hand near the ground and Bronze climbs back up onto my shoulder. The chef says to me, “So that little fellow’s yours, then eh?”
“Yes,” I say. “I hope he was of some help to you.”
He nods. “He was, he was… Thank you. Rats have been a big problem around here lately. That big ol’ group just so happened to be hanging around my kitchen floor today, so I’ve been trying to shoo them all out. Then, of course, they all tried to get back in…” He sighed. “Thank you, again. If there’s anything I can do for you…”
Before I can say anything, he speaks up again.
“Oh, I’ve got it! Wait here.”
He turns and hurries back into the kitchen. A few moments later, he reemerges with a small bag.
“It’s not much, but here; it’s all I can spare.” He checks his watch. “Gah… I’m going to be late second shift. I need to get back to work; thank’s again, lassie!” He hurries inside once more, this time closing the door behind him; I can hear the deadbolt turn within, locking it shut.
I open the bag up see what’s inside. A smell hits me well before any sight does. It’s a bit repugnant, but much better than anything I’ve had in years. It’s not in a garbage can, anyway. And when you’re in danger of going hungry, leftovers from a kitchen are a God send.
Bronze on my shoulder and food in my belly, I continue on in my exploration of Veilgarden.
This is quite exciting! See if you can make a few influential contacts.
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
We had a similar text let's play that actually got pretty far but was abandoned due to lack of interest.
A few people still read this. If you want to keep going, go ahead.
My method in anything I do; it only takes one person to make it worthwhile.
Seriously, the fact that anybody is taking a look at this is making it worth it for me to continue.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Flickerdart
This is quite exciting! See if you can make a few influential contacts.
A bit of off-screen leveling did just that- and it'll be added into the narration in the entry after this one, along with a stat-update.
Now, for today's entertainment...
Part Five:
Veilgarden Outside The Singing Mandrake Day Two
****
****
That didn’t go very well.
After drinking a glass too many in the Singing Mandrake, I apparently attempted to make a joke to join in the rambunctious activities.
I don’t quite remember what it was about. But apparently, the other ladies of the room were caught off guard.
I wasn’t thrown out. But something tells me that I won’t be welcome there for a few days or so.
I had some time to kill, so I decided to take another walk around Veilgarden; there was still much of the area I hadn’t seen yet. I’m sure there’s more here than the Singing Mandrake and rat infestations.
Well, apparently there is something else; official incompetence.
I spot a constable clad in blue chasing a spiraling mass of papers blowing away in the breeze. Grabbing at them as frantically as he could, certain passerby citizens stopped to help hand them to him. Others, who likely were on a visit from Spite, quickly grabbed their fair share and tucked them away, disappearing into the crowds and alleyways with their stolen documentation.
One lands at my feet. The Constable, not noticing, charges past after the majority with a few others grabbing what he missed. No one seemed to mind as I picked up the one closest to me.
Upon a quick skimp over, I can tell that it’s a list of suspicious individuals. Interestingly, my own name is at the bottom; recently added with a black pen onto the typed document.
Now, I’m not a thief. But that Constable sure is a fair distance away. And these names listed; none of them are major criminals. Pick-pockets, vandals, rough youth. They don’t necessarily need this particular piece of paper. And what on Earth would they do if this fell into the hands of the very law-breakers it listed? I’d be doing them a service by disposing it properly; maybe in a fireplace. Or the Echo Bazaar, even; the seller there seemed the responsible type.
…
I stuff it away and swiftly leave the scene. The only way out quickly was a nearby alley; a few of the Spite-dwellers I'd seen had escaped through there. While I’m darting through, though, something catches my eye in the gutters.
I immediately recognize it as a Nephrite Lens; one of the prizes for playing the Bazaar’s game of Knife-and-Candle, where the contestants kill each other for fun and, especially if this little lens is in your pocket, profit- it utilizes a barely legal bit of technology to turn blood into jade gems. Of course, the dead don’t stay dead here, so it’s all just harmless fun.
Well. -Harmless-
Despite not being a player myself, I’m sure someone who frequents the Bazaar is, and would like very much to have this little device. Maybe I’ll drop it off there with the correspondence I liberated.
Or maybe I'll hang onto it. You never know.
I find a loop around that the alley leads out back onto the main road, a good distance away and well out of sight. And that’s that.
I start walking again. Who knows what I’ll find next?
****
****
A strange man stops me in the street. At first, I panic- Was that paper really all that valuable? Have I been caught? But when the man pulls out a bouquet of flowers, I loosen up. Slightly. Because this was still a bit on the strange side.
I ask him; “…What’s this about?”
He smiles- in such a way that would stick with me for a time to come. “Would you, by any chance, happen to be named, ‘Aaricia Reynolds?’”
I raise an eyebrow at his knowledge of my name. “Yes… And who would you be?”
He smiles again. For some reason, that smile gives me a strange feeling. I couldn’t describe it if I tried. He says, “Never mind that. It seems a Devil has taken a shine to you, deary. I’m just the delivery service.” A glimmer in his eye. “Today.”
He hands me the flowers. They smell nice; nicer than the other flora growing underground. “A… A Devil? From the Brass Embassy? That kind of Devil?”
The man nods. “Indeed. He sends his regards.”
“Er… That’s… Nice. I suppose.”
He turns away, and gives a small wave over his shoulder before vanishing in the sea of pedestrians. “Enjoy. They’re from the surface, I hear.” After that, he was gone.
I look at the flowers. Well. Despite the strangeness of the situation, they were nice.
Visit the criminals on your list, if you can, and start a mighty criminal empire.
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
*scurries off to write next update sooner than planned*
Of course it is a good idea. I am a veritable wellspring of genius, after all. Now go, and fetch me fresh jam!
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
Soo... Reading on a message board is driving people away from... Reading, then? Hm. Well, the logics's broken in my eyes, but hey, to each his own.
...
Crazy, isn't it? (The qualifier here is "in one go". This should be entertainment, not work. Im a visual guy. >_> )
Appropriate yourself an illustrator? Even the derivative work of the Burlew imitators is better than nothing for a large number of this forum's visitors.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
Appropriate yourself an illustrator? Even the derivative work of the Burlew imitators is better than nothing for a large number of this forum's visitors.
Meh. I'll give looking for someone a shot, but it unless that someone is fast on the draw (ha), it might just be better (read: easier) to keep it going like this.*
Is there a thread in the Arts and Crafts section where you go and… Like, ask for an artist? I scanned over the threads, but as I don’t frequent that section of the site, I have no clue.
*Though, an alternative is longer updates with images in place of medium update-length with little to no images.
Make a new one, everyone does. If there was a such a thread as you describe, nobody knows of it.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JaronK
Frankly, a Wizard can suck even more than a Fighter could ever dream of sucking. A Fighter can stab himself to death, but only a Wizard could Plane Shift to some horrible far realm to be tortured for an eternity of insanity.
Well, if you're willing. I'm not sure how many images this would need per update- my current guess is maybe 2-3, depending on how long they end up being. And I don't really care how shoddy they'd be. Anything works.
Wheter or not images get added to the parts already up would depend on if you feel like doing those.
Hum... yeah, 2 to 3 sounds pretty easy. Just send me per pm what "scenes" or situations you want picturified and i should have this scribbled up quickly.
Teh Intire Interwebz to Domochevsky, for providing the bad-a$$ images that you'll see in updates ahead. They are sweet.
Too simple for you? Bah humbug, then, 'cause I think they're fantastic.
A warning, though; this one's fairly long. From now own, though, they'll be shorter. Promise.
Onwards!
Part Six:
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I have been wondering, lately, why there always seems to be a crowd around town. This probably isn’t the usual reason, but for today, it was the main one.
A Rubbery Man- a hideously transformed creature with, in this case, a squid in place of a face- was shuffling as fast as he could with his awkward side-ways walk to escape from a crowd of jeerers.
Now, I personally don’t have anything against Rubbery Men. They're hideous, yes. But they’ve never given me any reason to dislike them enough to form an angry, racial-hatred fueled mob and chase them down in the streets. And while I want to side with the Rubbery Man, well… A few of those men have pitchforks. And all previous fighting I’ve done so far has been against rats; and even that I left to Bronze. Not to put down Bronze’s fighting capabilities, but I don’t think he’d be able to take on a ye-olde style angry mob on his own. My scrawny arms likely wouldn’t do much, either.
Of course, I’ve heard the rumors. That Rubbery Men carry stores of rare amber with them in bags. And that satchel he’s carrying looks rather heavy…
So, unfortunately, I’m forced to wait… Er, watch on the sidelines. Morals be damned; that’s an intimidating crowd. And I’m sure they have their reasons for going after him. He may seem like just a poor chap, but how do I know he didn’t rob one of these kind gentlemen’s homes in the night? I haven’t heard their side of the story.
…Admittedly, I haven’t heard the Rubbery Man’s, either. Regardless, when I spot that he dropped his bag in the chase, I make haste in my walk towards it. Unfortunately, it seems someone else had the same idea.
They meet me by the bag, letting the rest of his comrades in the mob carry the Rubbery man to whatever horrid fate awaits him. “And what do you think you’re doing, girly?”
I stop, about two feet from the bag. I’m perhaps a foot and a half closer to it than he is. Maybe if I’m fast enough…
“I’m… Ahem. I’m simply taking this bag to the Constables, is all. It could be dangerous- who knows what those Rubbery Men carry in these satchels.”
He isn’t fooled. “I think we both know what Rubbery Men carry in their satchels. And I didn’t come all the way here from Spite just to let some wretch off the street steal my amber prize. So back. Off.”
The man’s voice made it sound like he was the toughest thug in the Neath. However, I can recognize a weak stature when I see one. He was, from the looks of it, about on par with me in terms of strength. And unless he pulled out a Spyglass Knife from that frock coat he had on, even I’d probably be able to hold my own against him.
Or at least out run him. With the bag in tow, of course.
While slowly making my way towards the sack, I say, “Hpmh. Well, how can you expect me to just hand over the belongings of that poor man? It should go to his family, or the authorities, or-”
“Shove it. And give me that bag!”
He dives. I follow, and both of us land on it at the same time. In seconds, the two of us are in a tug-of-war over the satchel and whatever treasures are inside. I’m unable to get a good enough grip on it to tear it free of his hands, but, fortunately, neither is he. It would have been a stalemate until one of us tires- if it had been a one-on-one.
I shout out, “Bronze! Help me out here!”
On the order, Bronze leaps from my shoulder and lands on the bag between me and the Spite-dweller. Unfortunately, instead of simply making the other man loose his grip, his sharp claws slice into the fabric and a tear breaks the satchel apart.
Various items scatter across the street. And after seeing that one of their allies was missing, a few of the men from the mob came looking for him- and saw us fighting over the spoils.
It was a mad grab. The amber landed closer to them than I, but I managed to get a bit of food in my swipe before being forced to flee. “Bronze, come on!” I extend my hand and he jumps on, rushing to my shoulder as I escape at a dead sprint. I only got two cooked rat corpses. It may not be amber. But it’s something.
****
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I enter the nearest bar- not the Singing Mandrake, but a smaller, more localized pub. Taking a seat in one of the empty tables, of which there are few, I let my heartbeat stabilize a bit whilst taking out the Constable's list I ‘found.’ On the label across the top, it says, in thick, bolded text, ‘Suspected Criminals and Suspicious Persons.’ Huh. Kind of redundant, really.
With more time than when I first got it, I decide to scroll my eyes down and see if I recognize any names.
I don’t, but I do find something interesting. Written in a section of names that the Constables find the need to stalk every now and then, there’s an individual apparently known only as ‘Mrs. H.’ She’s labeled as a Spy. And is known to frequent the bar I’m sitting in.
This has to be the luckiest I’ve been all week. Breaking out of prison was almost less than this. It doesn’t say who she spies for- but it doesn’t need to. All spies of all factions know the inner workings of Fallen London; I once knew one back in New Newgate. Before she was dragged off one day.
But in any case; I’ve come into possession of something that this spy, this ‘Mrs. H.’ would be very happy to keep out of Constable hands. Nobody likes having unwanted eyes on them while they work.
I get up, and search the room.
With no lead on what she even looks like, though, I don’t have much to go on.
I start with the bartender; an older fellow with graying hair and a balding scalp, but in his eyes you could tell that he was a strong one- if only in will.
I call for him, “Bartender.” He turns to look at me.
“Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?”
“You can help me find someone.” I present the piece of paper, folded so that only the spy’s alias shows.
He leans in and squints, mouthing the words as he reads out the name. “…Ah!”
“You recognize it?”
“Well, no, but I think I know the person who would.” He points over to a table behind me, but I don’t look just yet. “He’s the type of man who dwells in that sort of thing.”
I ask him, “What sort of thing?” Spying? How many of them are there here… Is this a meeting spot?
“You know. Knowing people.” He shakes his head. “This may not be Spite, but this is Fallen London. Criminal activities are, unfortunately, a very prominent method of advancing in society. Even living lightly in the underworld is very… Very profitable.” He looks at the table behind me again. “Though, he’s more a gentlemanly type than most, I suppose…”
I turn around to look at the table he’s gesturing at.
…Oh my.
Smiling at me confidently, the man who gave me the Devil’s flowers sat straight-backed and alone at his table.
I don’t thank the bartender. I just walk over to the man and take a seat across from him.
He speaks first. “Well, then; if it isn’t the lovely Miss Aaricia Reynolds! I had no idea that I’d be seeing you again so soon…”
“…” I don’t say anything.
He isn’t put off. “…Well. I hear you’re looking for someone, Miss Aaricia.”
“I am.”
“Is that right? Hmm…” He took a sip from his drink. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place. I-”
“Who are you.”
His smile faded- only for a second, but I saw it. He cleared his throat, and said, “You know, Miss Aaricia, it’s not polite to interrupt. And from what I hear about you, you’re supposedly a gentlewomen.”
I ask him again. Slower. “Who. Are. You.”
“Now, now, Miss Reynolds… I am all you see before you. Just a man. A man who has the information you need.”
“Then what do you want.”
“Just the company of a new friend.”
“…”
“…Now, let’s try to keep our minds out of the gutter, shall we? Stay with me here for a while; you’re in no rush.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know you, Aaricia.”
“You do not know me.”
“I’d be willing to dispute that.” He sipped his drink again. “…The spy you’re looking for. What was her name, again?”
“Mrs. H.”
“Oh!” He clasped his hands. “Then you’ve lucked out! I just so happen to be acquaintances with her! Lovely young lady- though not as much as you.”
“Where is she.”
“Around.” He turns in his chair and looks through the crowd. “You’ll find her somewhere in a corner booth, off in that direction.”
I stand to leave; his smile wasn’t comforting anymore, if it ever had been. But before I do, he says something else;
“Goodbye, Miss Aaricia. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
…I think it’s best if I leave Veilgarden after this. Let everything blow over. Besides; there’s so much to see outside the bars and art shows.
But that is for later. For now, I must find Mrs. H. and see what information I can squeeze out of her. I had leverage. And that was more valuable than hard cash anywhere, above or below the surface.
After looking around a bit, I spot what the man described- a woman sitting alone in a corner booth. Not much of a drinker, apparently, but she had eyes scanning the faces of each person in the room. For dramatic effect, I wait to approach her until she lays them on me.
The eye contact seemed to throw her off; me walking towards her almost made her lose her composer. That gives me confidence. Maybe this would be easy.
Wordlessly, I take a seat across from her. Our eyes blankly stare each other down until I slide out the folded list of criminals.
I say, “Mrs. H., correct?”
She nods slowly. “I suppose you wouldn’t be over here unless you were fairly confident in that knowledge...” She notices the paper, and makes a nod referencing it. “May I ask what that is?”
“Straight to business? You don’t even know my name, yet…”
“Well, to be fair, you don’t know mine either.”
I chuckle. She was clever enough to be a spy, anyway. “This paper here,” I say unfolding it, “Is a list of names of the fairly large group of Veilgarden dwellers the Constables have decided to keep a watch on. Coincidentally, your name- or, code name, rather- just happens to be on it.” I notice the twitch in her eye. “Wouldn’t it be a crying shame if they were to get it back with an anonymous tip alerting them to your presence here. I think it would be- then how ever would I make a profit on your freedom?”
“I think you underestimate my capability as a spy.”
“I think you underestimate my persistence as a blackmailer.”
We end up eying each other again.
She says, after a sigh, “Alright, fine. What is it that you want? Money? Secrets?”
I shake my head. “Connections. I’m sure that, wherever you came from, you didn’t start off in the position that you’re in now. To make it down here, you need the right friends- or the right connections- in high places.” I flash a smile. “Though some secrets would be nice to have, too.”
She grits her teeth. Whoever employs her won’t like her giving out promises and hidden know-how. But if she wants to keep the Constables off her tail, and through that, her job, she’d tell me what I want to know. She'd have to.
I end up walking away from the table with the spy’s employers- unnamed players of the so-called, 'Great Game,' in which spies and assassins are the living tools of play- owing me a few favors, along with a handful of new secrets to sleep on.
I think I’ll head on to another section of London, now. See what it has to offer me. If Veilgarden could get me connections with people I can only presume are in league with the Masters, who can tell what the rest of the sparkling city will hand me with a bit of hard work?
Besides; I could use a getaway from that man with the Devil's flowers.
Never did catch his name.
I approach the nearest road sign. It reads ‘Ladybones Road,’ and points southwest. I guess that’s where my next destination is, then.
Chewing on the flesh of the rat corpse I won in the earlier tussle, I make my way down the stone-cobbled street.
Hopefully, fate willing, I’ll have even better luck in Ladybones than I ended up having in Veilgarden.
I’m walking down a corridor. The walls are lined with brass mirrors, and they reflect my every movement with perfection. When looking straight ahead, my vision is fine. When looking into the mirrors on both sides, however, it begins to blur white and fade away.
But aside from the fading vision, I’m feeling just fine. More than fine, really. For some reason, I’m feeling spectacular. Like I’m taking a stroll in the forest, but instead of being outside, I’m in a hallway for some inexplicable reason.
Eventually, I reach a door.
I reach out my hand to open it. But it opens by itself.
Looking in, the room is… Unremarkable. But I’m not sure if it’s safe. So I look to my right. I see my reflection walking into the room.
I guess it’s safe, then. I suppose I’d better join it.
…I wake up in the alley I slept in that night.
I’m either going crazy… Or something strange is going on.
Ladybones Road Street ‘A’ Day Three
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Well. It took me a day to get here, the way the roads are set up. But I’ve arrived on Ladybones Road- famous for its culture, and infamous for… Its culture.
It’s not a very nice place. But it’s better than most places, at the moment. Certainly better than Spite. And so long as nothing strange happens, I should be able to-
…What’s this?
Hanging from a string around a rusty nail sticking out of a brick wall, a closed envelope sealed with a red emblem was staring back at me. I felt like I had seen the emblem before…
But it was probably my imagination. I take it down from the wall and turn it over. Written on the back were the words, in a stylized font; ‘You’ll know when.’
I try to remove the seal. It doesn’t budge. I try to tear apart the envelope. It doesn’t rip.
“…What is this thing…” I find myself muttering aloud.
I can hear Bronze whining a bit as I stare at the image on the red seal. Where have I seen it before- I swear that I have somewhere…
…I pocket the note and move on. I might find a way to open it later. Or sell it, I suppose. But from the looks of it, it’s meant for me. And I always have room for more needless things.
I sigh as I walk. The dream from last night was still getting to me. I have no idea what it means- what any of them mean. Or why I’m having them. Back in New Newgate, I’d probably blame the food. But here… Eh… The food’s not great, but it doesn’t give you nightmares. Not unless it explicitly says so on the label. So then why…
…It can wait. I won’t let that distract me. I’m not going to let a dream freak me out. I’m not going to let a note freak me out. I’m better than that. Hmph.
I keep walking down the street. The streets of Fallen London.
I’ll either find my fortune, or find my death. But I’m not going to find my fear.
Funny factoid; I actually succeeded in the high-risk challenge I was expecting to fail in for this update, and for story reasons decided to go back and try to fail again. I mean, I wasn’t going to just walk away with all that loot. That would be ludicrous. We need a good embarrassing failure every once and a while.
Besides, I already had the text typed up and everything, and didn’t want to go back and change it because I won.
Also; they’ll be a distinct lack of updates for the next few days as I mindlessly level Aaricia up to the standards of a healthy human being, fill her wallet a bit (I’ll find some reason she suddenly gets a few Echoes out of nowhere for an in-story explanation) and get her in a home. Those of you who play the game (and if you’re not playing it, you really should be) will probably know the level of annoyance that comes to the forefront when you try to get a decent amount of money early on; well, as I’ve really only been doing stuff for fluff reasons and, as you can see, Aaricia isn’t a multi-billionaire yet, that means I’m really going to have to grind a few days to get a nice set of stats, a home, and a few bucks in my pocket in order to progress.
To sum up; no updates for a few days as I grind into the ground and think of ways to explain my new-found abilities and cash in-character.
Moving on.
Part Eight:
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I step lightly as I walk away from eavesdropping on two old women gossiping under Hangman’s Arch. They spoke in language that would make even the most profane sailors blush and made more rude jokes about the citizenry than I cared to hear. But I walked away with a few overheard tips and tidbits, so sifting through the nonsense and crazed debauched insults became worth it in some small fashion.
I do have to sneak around the carts towing recently hanged villains away into exile on my way out, however. The two old buzzards picked the time of evening to talk when criminals not being sent to New Newgate are hung by the neck, tossed into a cart while unconscious- because, I stress again, there aren’t many real deaths in Fallen London, so hanging is the equivalent of painfully knocking the fools on the head- and sent into exile in who-knows-where.
One thing the women mentioned in passing- or rather, off-handedly through an insult- that particularly perked my interest, was the rumor that a lighter packed to the brim with contraband crashed in the murky swamps of Bittermonkey Reach. Apparently, the drivers were getting drunk off the shipment they were smuggling in for a connoisseur in Veilgarden trying to avoid the Masters’ taxes and slammed into the side of a rock. They were dragged off to New Newgate, but, if the women under the noose are to be trusted, not a single person (The women themselves stated that they were ‘much too lady-like’ for mudlarking) has seemingly scrambled to take a grab for as much wine as they can carry. Yet. And I intend to beat the crowd.
I head down to the muddy grounds of Bittermonkey Reach, and ready myself to carry back a fine load of valuable Neath wine.
It doesn’t go very well. I spot what I think may be an in-reach perfectly intact case of wine, but take a wrong step and get my foot trapped in the mud. I start to sink, but thankfully pull myself out quick enough that I walk away with all my limbs still attached. Any other Neath-dweller would have ended it there; walk away with their body intact and in need of a bath. But not me, oh ho, no. I’m not letting nature stop me from getting my due.
Not that I’ve done anything, really, to earn the wine currently scattered across the coast. But I was going to get my share of it anyway.
Though maybe not so far out next time. The shallower depths, while just as murky, won’t drown me if I make a wrong move.
I try again, with a modicum of success; a half-open case of wine with only a few bottles missing.
It may not be as valuable as a full case of 1879 Greyfields, but it was certainly better than walking away empty handed.
And I could use a good drink right now. Get my mind off the smell coming up from my… I’m assuming and hoping, mud-covered feet.
And my homelessness, it’d be good to get my mind off that. Which has become a bit of a problem recently, as the locals have been giving me funny looks as they walk by my alleyway every now and then. Not my fault they don’t provide free shelter to escaped convicts. I’d like to see them work out how to find a place to live in my position.
…Hm. I should really work on finding a new place- somewhere that I can call my own, somewhere I won't be sharing my living space with rodents- present company of weasels excluded. I have a fairly good amount of secrets from various sources to trade flat out for a home- I even saw an ad put up that, for a fair deal of secrets, an owner would be willing to rent out an apartment.
I check my pockets. I don’t have that much money, though… And those secrets would certainly fill my wallet with Echoes fairly quickly.
…Though now that I think about it, perhaps an investment in new lodgings isn’t such a bad idea.
Back sooner than I thought I'd be. Guess being bored at a hotel doesn't leave you with much to do. Behold; the next installment.
Part Nine:
Fallen London Aaricia’s Lodgings Day Six
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****
I take a sip from a glass of fine wine- not that junk I mudlarped for earlier in the week, something a gentleman bought for me on a visit to a local pub- as I look out over the buildings of Fallen London from my bedroom window. It’s more of an attic, really, and it cost me every written secret I hadn’t sold in the Bazaar to get. But I’m off of the streets. I feel so… Much more invigorated after a good night’s sleep in the, rather good quality, mattress. There’s a writing desk and an inked quill, along with a nice supply of paper. The fee was one-time; no weekly nonsense here. And though I deserve better, it’s certainly a huge improvement over the prison cell I was in only six days ago.
Bronze was curled up on the corner of the bed, trading my shoulder for sleeping on a comfortable mattress. Not that I blame him. I’m fairly tired of sleeping on stone myself.
I drain the last of the Greyfield from my glass and set it on the table. I look at the ring I acquired on a… Detour… Through Spite. It was made of Rostygold- the typical material used in payment of assassins. Some old lout, asleep on a park bench, had it loosely slipped around his finger while I was passing by. Now, I’m not necessarily a criminal. But he was asking for it. The fool was taking a snooze in the most crime-infested region of Fallen London. Did he expect to keep all of his belongings? He’s lucky it was me who found him first- any other wouldn’t have taken to the effort to not wake him. Just slit his throat and be done with it. Loot the corpse. Not me, however. I’m much classier.
And there were people nearby.
I wouldn’t have been in Spite, anyway, if not for a couple of vagabonds ambushing me on the road that happened to connect it to Ladybones. They weren’t in pristine physical condition; but neither was I. Yes, they had glaring deformities. Yes, I out ran them at a jog. But still- there were two of them and only one of me. Greater numbers typically win out, in my own experiences. And it finally gave me a reason to give Spite a formal look-around. I met the most fascinating chaps in a pub there- robbers, I do believe, but I’m not here to pass judgment on one’s chosen profession. We quickly reached a first-name basis, we did. But only after I helped them trick a few constables into chasing some fool loitering on a street corner instead of them. In return, they and I became acquaintances, and I suppose the unspoken arrangement here was that they owed me a bit of a favor in the future.
In any case; the past few days have been long and tiresome. I lay down next to Bronze on the bed, too lazy to toss the covers overtop myself. I don’t believe I’ve had a good night’s sleep in quite a while…
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